
whipping up circuslike spectacles for an impres-
sionable public. e shamanic community, it
should be said, is riven by factions and com-
peting groups, so some of the ill will might be
attributed to jealousy.
"We don't have a salary---we live on what
people decide to give us," Dorzhiyev said. While
I was with him, he seemed to take his profes-
sional responsibilities very seriously, and I nev-
er saw him ask clients for money. He; his wife,
Tatyana; and their two sons and a daughter live
in a modest, two-room apartment in a building
Tatyana manages. "We get by. We have enough
for bread," he said, laughing.
The very idea of a shamanic organization
strikes many observers as odd---heresy even---
since shamans have traditionally been a rural
phenomenon, working independently in their
villages and nomadic tribes. Tengeri's members
counter that if they were not a registered associa-
tion, they'd be overwhelmed by the mainstream
religious groups that have gained a foothold
since the end of communism. "Religion is mar-
keting," Dorzhiyev said.
more than spiritual re-
birth and good business. It is also a catalyst for
the post-Soviet cultural revival among the na-
tive peoples of Buryatiya. On the shore of Lake
Baikal, the world's deepest body of fresh water
and one of the most sacred sites in Siberia, I
witnessed shamanism as self-determination---a
ceremony by Buryats for Buryats.
Buryats are a Mongol people who also prac-
tice Buddhism and Christianity. About 300
years ago the Russian Empire swallowed them
in its inexorable expansion across the Eurasian
landmass. During the Soviet period they, along
with the region's other indigenous groups, suf-
fered massive population losses, and their cul-
ture was smothered. In Buryatiya today Buryats
make up less than a third of the population.
With Baikal's waters lapping just beyond a
small ridge, under a sky with clouds so low it
looked as if you could reach out and grab a pu ,
three shamans wearing green, purple, and blue
robes had gathered to ask the spirits for a good
harvest and for unity. ey stood to the side and,
almost imperceptibly, murmured invocations,
sprinkling milk and vodka into a small camp re.
ere were no trances, no spiritual reworks,
just the whisper of prayers o ered and the sizzle
of liquid meeting re.
Next to me was Petr Azhunov, a hyperki-
netic sprite of a man with a ponytail and wispy
beard who is both a shaman and an anthropolo-
gist. For him shamanism is as much a political
statement as a religious movement---an e ort
to restore a Buryat sense of nationhood after
Russian hegemony. Under communism, Azh-
unov said, rituals like this sometimes had to be
held in the dead of night. Still, many local com-
munist o cials tolerated shamanism, and some
even visited shamans. "Moscow is afraid of au-
thentic shamans like us," Azhunov said. "Mus-
lims are controllable, Buddhists are controllable,
organized groups like the Tengeri are controlla-
ble---but real shamans cannot be controlled." He
poured to the ground an o ering of a few drops
of the local brew, tarasun---a pungent drink made
from fermented milk---before taking a sip.
Azhunov is a traditionalist who believes that
women should be barred from certain shamanic
rites. "Your photographer, Carolyn, cannot pho-
tograph this ceremony," he said apologetically.
"Women are at risk of being unclean." e men
nearby nodded gravely in agreement.
A few hundred yards away at another sacred
spot, Carolyn Drake and I encountered three
female shamans conducting their own ritual.
eir leader, Lyudmila Lozovna Lavrentiyeva,
wearing a yellow scarf, red pants, and jangling
necklaces, laughed at the idea that only men
could be shamans. " e Buryats believe that
Many local communist
o cials tolerated
shamanism. Some even
visited shamans.